Runaway

Runaway - chapter 3

3.

It was a toasty Friday afternoon, and I was currently in the science lab, writing about ionic bonding. Niamh was looking at me wide eyed and shocked, her words a constant buzz she was talking so fast. It was a good thing we were allowed to talk at this moment in time, because Niamh was gabbling like a turkey.

“I can’t believe you actually want to do that! Are you messed up or something? Are you depressed? Are you on a death wish? You want to live like a teenage vagrant?!”

I turned to her. She’d hit a nerve. I frowned deeply. “Don’t talk to me about depression and being messed up Niamh, don’t you dare.” I said coldly.

She realised what I’d meant. She dropped her eyes, embarrassed, giving my bare wrists a sideways glance.

Confused? I’ll explain.

I didn’t usually take my jumper off in class; in fact, I avoided it at all costs. But today was warm, and most people knew where I’d been.

It had been two years ago, and becoming a teen had suddenly given me overwhelming emotions of sadness and longing, stronger than I’d ever felt before. I was thirteen years old, and self harm seemed the only option. I knew it was wrong, but for me, pain was my escape.

My wrists were unrecognisable afterwards. Niamh actually found me doing it; I don’t remember doing it though, not ever. I tried not to. It was like I was in a trance. All I remember was all the blood, and the nurse at the hospital, her name was Eloise, and the bandages round my wrists. I had to stay at home, they worried about me, and if I’m honest, I was worried about me too.

They took me to counselling. Correction, I asked them to. They said that was a brilliant idea. I sat with a woman called Angie and we talked, talked about everything, about how I needed an escape from my lonely existence. She listened and never interrupted.

Angie asked me if I could find another escape, a safer, more rewarding one.

I said I liked drawing.

She told me her son was an artist, and that he could give me some art lessons. I accepted readily, I loved art, and I wanted to be happy again.

Her son became my best friend, his name was Gabe and he loved Harry Potter too. We kept in contact, and I finally found my escape, my drawing, my art.

Niamh sighed. “Sorry Calleigh.”

I was expecting her to say something stupid like ‘I forgot’ but she didn’t. I looked at her.

She was red, and her eyes were glazed and shiny. I knew why. Niamh remembered how messed up I was, how I was barely even myself. I pulled her over for a hug, not even caring what the teacher said. Miss Kelly was nice though, she understood us.

“No, you’re right. It is a bad idea, but I want to find them.”

Niamh nodded. She knew not to go into it here; science wasn’t really the best place to air our personal problems, especially in front of other nosy 15 year olds.

I turned my wrists to look at my scars. Gabe called them my ‘Harry scars.’ He said I was ‘the girl who lived’. This made me smile, even now.

I looked at them; they were an angry pink today. Their colour varied over the months. I had eight on my right arm and 13 on my left. They had faded considerably, but me having the skin tone I had, they stood out a lot.

I rubbed each, like it was sacred. They reminded me of my journey to hell and back.

“Woah.” somebody breathed behind me.